


Mixed Signals

by SkysongMA



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 10:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13432497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkysongMA/pseuds/SkysongMA
Summary: After the Drift, Hermann starts having sex dreams.Newt's sex dreams.That are all about Hermann.





	Mixed Signals

The night after the world didn't end, Hermann had his first sex dream.

 

Not his _first_ sex dream, obviously. Hermann took care of his sexual needs the way other men cleaned the bathroom: regularly, and with as little fuss as possible. Plenty of others in the Shatterdome felt the same, so he never had a hard time finding partners, especially once word got around that he was decent in bed and wouldn't make things awkward.

 

He wanted nothing else. A romantic partner—or even just a regular bed partner—would distract him just as much as lack of release.

 

Once he had been foolish enough to think he could have those things, but he’d been much younger then, and the world had more light. But he knew better now. Most days life felt like an endless parade of death, so it took all his energy to keep those thoughts at bay _and_ figure out how to save humanity. He certainly couldn’t help another person do that on a regular basis. Sometimes even impersonal coupling was too much intimacy, if he allowed himself to look in their eyes and wonder if they would still be alive the next night.

 

All of that meant sex was the last thing on his mind. Not like it would have been hard to find someone to slide between the sheets with—everyone he passed on his way back to his room was kissing someone else. Or grinding them. Or sucking them off in a corner that was not as dark and secluded as they apparently thought.

 

Hermann did his best not to disturb them, though walking quietly on metal floors with a cane was basically impossible. He'd have been doing it himself if his hip wasn't made of hot lead and broken glass. The party would still be there when he woke up.

 

Sleep. A shower, a vicodin, and sleep. That was it. And he was out before he could even pull the blankets over himself.

 

***

 

_Newt is pressed up against the wall, his lips parted, his face flushed. His hair's a mess, but when isn't his hair a mess? His head is tilted back because Hermann is holding it that way with the top of his cane._

_Hermann narrows his eyes, looks Newt up and down. Newt is panting, biting his lip now—the pressure of his teeth reveals faint scars where snakebite piercings once rested. He could push Hermann away easily, but he doesn't; he's frozen, trembling._

_The power is intoxicating. "I could do anything I wanted to you," Hermann says, and the words should feel false and forced because he's never wanted to say anything like that in his life, but here they are right. Here they make Newt swallow hard. When he opens his mouth, Hermann presses up with his cane—just slightly, just enough to put some pressure on the pulse jumping in Newt's throat. "Don't speak. You'll just ruin it."_

_He leans forward, so their faces are almost touching. He's always known he's taller than Newt—it's not obvious, since Newt is always standing on his tiptoes or rocking up on his heels, and Hermann slouches toward his cane. But it's true. Until this moment, it's just been another fact in Newt's dossier, like his weight (usually somewhere in the range of 150 pounds) or his identifying markers (a list of tattoos that is woefully out of date, since Newt's had more and more kaiju to put all over himself in the past few years). But now... now it is a possibility, just like the dilation of Newt's pupils, his shallow, short breaths._

_Hermann replaces his cane with the palm of his other hand, and Newt groans aloud, his eyes fluttering shut. Hermann feels it as much as he hears it, and he presses harder, just slightly. Newt's eyes stay closed, but he licks his lips and they stay parted._

_Hermann kisses him—fierce, savage, swallowing the desperate sounds that Newt makes against his lips. He presses his good leg between both of Newt's, grinding against the swell of his erection. Hermann himself is harder than he's ever been in his life, but he hardly notices, focused on the helpless way Newt moves against him, the scrabbling of his hands against the wall as he steadies himself. He pins Newt with more force, to hold him still, but only for a moment, until Newt whimpers. Until he knows that Newt needs release so badly he couldn't speak even if Hermann told him to._

_"Touch yourself," Hermann says into Newt's ear, and Newt lets out a broken sound as he slips his hand into his pants. Then he's gasping against the side of Hermann's neck, pressing up against Hermann's hip—_

 

***

 

Hermann woke, his cock throbbing. He grabbed a handkerchief from the bedside table. He hardly had to touch himself—once, twice—before he came harder than he had in. God. Years. Since he was an even scrawnier teenager learning how.

 

He lay flat on his back, panting, as he slowly softened. His hip hurt, and he hadn't caught everything with the handkerchief, which meant he ought to get up and shower again.

 

But instead he laid there, breathing hard, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

 

***

 

Since it was still the middle of the night, he could take a few more painkillers, enough to knock him out and ensure there would be no more dreams. And while he was drifting off, he could convince himself it was nothing. After all, he'd had sex dreams that involved just about everyone he worked with on a regular basis—Tendo was a regular player, and Herc Hansen. Even Marshal Pentecost now and then. Dreams were just dreams. They vomited up whatever had happened that day in a different format, and if you were young, virile, and had been ignoring your body's needs, sometimes they involved a mess to clean up when you woke.

 

But he'd never had a dream about Newton. Not once. Not even ten years ago, when they first started writing to each other and Hermann had thought—

 

Things. Idiotic things. Things disproved the moment he met Newton Geiszler in person and the other man opened his mouth.

 

Newt was attractive, certainly. Rounded and soft, a rare sight in the Shatterdome where even most of the women had a six-pack. His mouth was always slightly red and swollen, as though he had just been kissed.  And he had a habit of licking his fingers when he ate, slowly, sucking each one clean before he moved to the next.

 

And yes. All right. He did look like the kind of man who needed to be fucked regularly. The kind of man who thought best after he'd been had hard and long. The kind of man who only shut up with a cock in his mouth.

 

But if Hermann had ever thought about those things—it was academic. Strictly. He noticed facts about other people, that was all. Raleigh Becket bit his nails, for example. Tendo hummed flamenco songs when he was working. Mako drew anime characters on the edges of her notes sometimes.

 

So. Yes. Hermann Gottlieb knew a lot of things about Newton Geiszler. But they were stupid things. Pointless things. Things that had not mattered until that night, when he was lying awake, resisting the urge to touch himself again.

 

At least he wouldn't remember in the morning. He always forgot his dreams.

 

***

 

Hermann _did_ remember in the morning. That combined with the slight hangover that came with his pills and the crash from yesterday's adrenaline rush—really, everything about yesterday—made Hermann feel like marching straight to Newt's room and—

 

And what?

 

Two days ago, the answer would have been beating Newt to death with one of his kaiju pieces.

 

Now Hermann could only think how satisfying it would be to put Newt down on his knees and make him beg forgiveness. Without speaking.

 

How much he suspected Newt would like it.

 

How much Hermann himself would like it. Never mind that he had supposedly smothered all such feelings and all such thoughts years and years ago, before he even came to Hong Kong. Never mind that such thoughts were reckless and would get him nowhere.

 

No, absolutely not. Hermann stumped off to the labs and started downloading all his research to a private drive. He wanted copies before the PPDC tried to confiscate everything.

 

***

 

Newt came in around noon. Hermann sensed rather than heard him approach—like someone had the radio on in the other room, and the radio was turned to a classic rock station, playing that shitty emo music Newt adored.

 

At first Hermann glanced up—but no one was there, only Drift echoes. As if this whole thing wasn't bad enough. He glared at his computer screen like that would somehow make the download go faster.

 

Finally, Newt came in. Hermann had spent the last half hour trying to think of the perfect horrible thing to say. Since he didn't have it yet, he settled for glaring at Newt over the top of his monitor.

 

Newt whistled the chorus to some dirty Chinese drinking song all the J-techs liked, pretending not to notice. Although Hermann knew he did notice, because he could feel Newt's attention like fingers brushing against the back of his neck. And light, nearly erotic touch was the last thing he wanted to think about right now.

 

"You took your time," Hermann muttered, when the silence became oppressive enough that he started to worry he would remember details from last night.

 

"Well, unlike some grumpy physicists I could mention, I actually know how to have fun," said Newt, surprisingly cheerful.

 

Had he taken advantage of someone's loose legs last night? Was that why Hermann had dreamed of such things? It would make sense. He'd read stories about male pilots experiencing menstrual cramps when their partner had a bad period. Surely pleasure traveled the same way?

 

"Oh really? And just how did you decide to celebrate the end of the world?" Hermann kept his voice mostly neutral. If he didn't rise to the bait, Newt would regale him with all the details, and he'd learn a rational explanation. Because there had to be a rational explanation. He had never once thought about Newt and sex in the same sentence.

 

Even if his jeans were so tight you could tell when he'd gone without boxers for the day.

 

Newt raised his eyebrows, looking up from his box of—well, God knew what, really. It had biohazard tape on the outside, but Newt put that on everything so Hermann wouldn't go through his things. "Duh, man. I got so wasted I think maybe I saw Jesus for the first time in my life. Because Tendo Choi doing body shots is definitely the closest I've ever been to heaven."

 

Hermann raised his eyebrows back. Usually this would be to intimidate Newt. Right now it was because he didn't entirely trust himself to speak without saying something he'd regret. Like _bend over._ Or _take your pants off, there's no bloody point in you wearing them when they're so tight I can see the outline of your cock against your leg._

 

To his surprise, Newt blushed, actually blushed, and with embarrassment instead of rage for once. It was—fetching. Would he look that way in bed? With a ring on his cock to keep him from coming and his hands tied behind his back?

 

Hermann shook himself and dropped his eyes. “Are you certain you didn’t get any closer?”

 

"Like I could ever actually make it with Tendo Choi, man," Newt said, but not angrily. He still sounded embarrassed.

 

Hermann made a noncommittal noise. "I didn't realize it was so difficult. He and Alison are quite open to new experiences."

 

Newt didn't say anything for a moment, but Hermann could feel him staring—both in the ordinary way and with the new sense of the Drift. Like reading words in your mind as someone else spoke them aloud. Hermann considered typing nonsense so Newt would look away, but it was too late. Newt didn't cross the line, but Hermann's desk was angled so that Newt could lean over the edge of it and peer at Hermann's work, for the times they had to collaborate. "Hold on one goddamn second."

 

"I wasn't doing anything, Newton," Hermann snapped, sounding peevish even to himself. He told himself it was because Newt was annoying and not because Hermann was half-hard like a teenager around his first girlfriend. "As usual you've got your things thrown everywhere, so I can hardly get up in a hurry."

 

Newt didn't blink; he was still staring at Hermann as though Hermann were the only thing that existed. Hermann hated when Newt looked at him that way. It was—it was—

 

Fine. All right. In moments of total focus—his lips pursed just so, his hair artfully rakish, and his eyes bright green and unblinking—Newt was handsome. Unconsciously so, but that just made it worse, because it appeared when neither of them were expecting it. Like when the two of them were standing beside each other and realized something brilliant at the same time.

 

Or like now, when Newt was looking Hermann up and down the way he sized up kaiju parts.

 

Hermann let out a disgusted sigh—an act, because what on earth else would it be? "What, Newton?"

 

" _You_ had sex with Tendo. And Alison. You."

 

Hermann thought about throwing something at Newt, but he didn't want to give him any more head trauma. His left eye was still filled with blood, after all. And, anyway, Newt tended to take things Hermann threw and squirrel them away, so that Hermann only found them months later underneath a pile of action figures and unintelligible scribbles.

 

Hermann pursed his lips, more to make sure his expression was prickly instead of lascivious. "Yes, actually, not that it's any of your business. It was Tendo's birthday, and he wanted the sort of sex you can only pull off with two cocks. Alison heard I was—game for such things. It was a successful arrangement, so we've repeated it since."

 

At that last, he couldn't resist looking at Newt's face—and the sheer naked _want_ he saw there made Hermann consider shoving away his computer so he could pull Newt down into his lap and have him right then.

 

But that was stupid for a thousand reasons, none the least that Hermann's computer was his baby, hand-built from the motherboard up.

 

Instead he allowed himself a smirk, since that could be blamed on pride instead of self-satisfied lust, and returned his gaze to the screen.

 

"You're a son of a bitch, you know that?" said Newt. But he couldn't disguise the impressed note to his voice, either.

 

"Again. Yes, not that it's any of your business."

 

Newt remained slumped over the desk for so long Hermann thought he was going to say something else. Then he huffed and pushed himself up. He went back to work and didn't speak for the rest of the day.

 

Hermann thought that was the end of it. As usual, he was wrong.

 

***

 

Hermann worked until his eyes started to cross—which wasn't nearly as late as usual, but, again, they had averted the end of the world. Certainly now he could begin a normal schedule. Or as normal of a schedule as he'd ever kept.

 

Nevertheless. He didn't let himself be idle when he got back to his room. He took a bath to ease his aching hip, but he spent the time rereading old articles to decide if he had anything non war-related he wanted to pick up again. When he got into bed, he went through all the files on his personal tablet, deciding what to keep and what to toss.

 

Finally, he was too tired to keep his eyes open. But just to be safe, he found a pair of headphones and put them in, playing classical music at a low volume.

 

***

 

_Newt's shivering and shaking—dripping wet and naked under the chemical shower in the lab. His clothes are scattered everywhere, little more than rags thanks to the kaiju blue all over them._

This really happened, when Newt tried something stupid without proper protections. Hermann still didn’t know what had happened; he’d been so angry he'd refused to hear Newt’s explanations. They didn't speak to each other, even to shout, for almost a week.

 

But Newt had been angry too: he'd sworn a blue streak at Hermann and only shut up when Hermann made good on a threat to smack him with his cane. Then he'd stood still and sullen as Hermann shoved towels and clothing at him.

 

Also, he'd still had his boots on, since they hadn't got splashed.

This _Newt is totally naked, top to tail. And he's not angry; he's frozen, blushing and abashed, one hand curled over his hips to hide himself._

This _Hermann is not out of his mind with worry, either, that he can only hide by being so angry he can't think._

_Instead, his upper lip curls in a sneer. "Look what you did," he says in a voice that's not like his own. He doesn’t speak this way when he's really disgusted with Newt. No. This is the way he talks when he's pretending. When no matter how hard he tries, he can't be upset, because he knows that even though Newt’s loud and crass and messy, he's still a genius, and together they are going to save the world._

Hermann didn’t know Newt understood that voice.

_Newt doesn't speak up to defend himself. Instead, he curls further into the corner—but that's an act too. He wants to be looked at, for all that he pretends to hide. His fingers dig into his skin, highlighting this or that detail of his tattoos, flexing his slight muscles. "It was an accident, dude—"_

_"Which wouldn't have happened if you would just be careful for once in your damned life."_

They'd really said that to each other, but in a different context.  And at the top of their lungs.

_Herman leans toward Newt, studying him. His skin is as pale as Hermann's, but he has freckles everywhere, all over his arms and legs. The water from the chemical shower traces patterns down his back, following the lines of his tattoos, and his whole body's broken out in goosebumps. "You're a mess."_

_Newt bites his lip instead of speaking. His mouth remain swollen and red, as though from a kiss._

_Hermann shakes his head and pulls the towels out of the drawer beside the shower. "Cover yourself up, for God's sake. You're an embarrassment."  He throws them at Newt. Newt lets them land on the shower floor rather than risk exposing himself and crouches to pick them up. Then he waits, as though to allow Hermann to turn around._

_Hermann does not. He rests both hands on his cane, standing in the most comfortable position like he is about to deliver a lecture and not watching his colleague shiver._

_After a moment, Newt wipes off, still curled awkwardly to hide himself._

Hermann should be uncomfortable too. When this happened, he did everything possible to avoid seeing Newt in the buff, because it was absolutely not something he ever wanted to picture. Absolutely not. And he certainly never wanted to see Newt humiliated like this.

_Except that it's an act, just like Hermann's disgust is an act. Newt's eyes keep flicking to him, to make sure he's still watching, and his tongue wets his lips every few minutes. He wants Hermann to see, the same way he wants Hermann to see whenever he does something ridiculous. Well. Maybe not in the_ exact _same way, because Hermann is pretty sure Newt was not attempting foreplay all the times he stole Hermann's baby carrots._

_Except that_ does _sound like the exact idiot thing he would do. But right now is not the time for that discussion._

_Not when Newt's trembling has changed. Not when the goosebumps on his skin are no longer from cold._

_"Honestly," Hermann snaps. "Can't you even do this right?" And he steps forward and takes the towel from Newt's hand. Newt doesn't fight him, doesn't protest, and although he tries to stand still, his body `arches up toward the towel. He shudders when Hermann's hands brush him, even slightly._

_Hermann narrows his eyes and moves the towel, leaving Newt's hips bare. Newt's cock has begun to swell; the skin around it is red and flushed, despite his chill._

_Hermann closes the distance between them. "What is_ that _," he hisses, but if he's baring his teeth it's only so Newt will think about being bitten. Newt stammers, but Hermann doesn't listen. He takes Newt in hand and strokes him, roughly. Newt makes a broken sound and drops his head back against the wall. He's shaking again, so Hermann presses closer, even though now it's definitely not from the cold._

_He slides his palm over the head of Newt's cock, coating it in precum. "Is this what you wanted?"  He squeezes again, and Newt gasps, his hands digging into his own skin. "Is_ this _what was distracting you?" Newt bites his lip again and doesn't speak. "Answer me, you animal. It's not like you to miss the chance to run your mouth." Newt still doesn't speak, so Hermann leans forward and bites Newt where his shoulder meets his neck._

_Newt half gasps, half shouts and finally says, "Okay, okay, I was thinking with my dick instead of my head!"_

_Still working his hand steadily, Hermann runs his tongue over the bite mark. It will blossom into a bruise, visible even underneath inked flame and smoke. With a broken sob, Newt ruts up into Hermann's touch. Hermann puts his free hand on Newt's hip to hold him still and changes his tone, like he’s lecturing an idiot lobbyist about the sanctity of his work.  "And why, exactly, were you thinking about sex instead of your thrice damned kaiju?"_

_"Because—fuck, please—" Hermann moves his hand at the same glacial pace, despite the increased rate of Newt's heartbeat, his quick, hungry pants. "Because whenever you're around I can't think about anything else!" This all comes out as more or less one word, and Hermann only understands because he’s used to translating Newt’s nonsense._

_Hermann scoffs. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. You're a scientist. You're supposed to be able to control baser urges, so that you can focus on a higher good." Still—his voice is pleased, and he knows Newt hears it because he lets out a little laugh. Hermann digs his nails, hard, into Newt's hip, gratified when he gasps._

_Hermann presses his face into the side of Newt's neck again. This time, it's as much for himself as Newt—he wants to taste the sweat sliding over Newt's skin, wants to leave marks the rest of the 'dome is sure to see. Wants them to know who Newt belongs to. "As though there were any question of that," Hermann mutters. "You're a mess, Newton Geiszler, do you know that?"_

_"Yes, yes, just_ please _—"_

_Instead of speeding up, Hermann stops altogether, pressing Newt's cock against the soft flesh of his belly. "If I finish you off," he murmurs, making sure that Newt can feel the movement of his lips and tongue, "do you promise never to do anything so foolish again?"_

_Newt shivers, and it's not all the way from want. It's something else, something Hermann doesn't recognize. Newt turns his head, looking Hermann in the face for the first time. "Please," he whispers again, and Hermann catches his mouth and bites down. He works his hand at a furious pace, hard enough to hurt but with the ease and confidence as though he's done this a thousand times. As though he and Newt are partners in bed like they are in the lab. As though this is what they've both been working toward the entire time._

 

***

 

Hermann woke with a jerk. This time he'd fallen asleep on his side, his legs wrapped around a pillow for extra support. Needless to say, the pillow was ruined. He parted his legs and wiped himself clean. The sensation was overwhelming, nearly enough to start him off again, but he pushed those feelings down, down, down.

 

This was ridiculous.

 

He threw the tissues in the bin and stretched out on his back. The only positive was that his hip didn't hurt, but his skin was still so sensitive that he had to rest his hands at his sides, breathing slowly.

 

He ought to have been furious. And indeed, some part of his mind was composing a formal lecture that would blister as certainly as wrapping one's hand around a red-hot poker.

 

But...

 

But mostly what he was thinking about was the look on Newt's face, just before Hermann kissed him. As though... as though this was everything Newt had ever dreamed of. As though he would let Hermann do whatever he wanted because Newt trusted him that completely.

 

He had seen that look on Newt's face, just two days ago, moments before they Drifted. On the chopper ride over, Hermann considered a thousand ways to propose the idea, trying to find one that Newt wouldn't immediately reject. But now Hermann had the idea that he could have spoken total gibberish, and Newt would still have put the helmet on. And that idea was far, far more disturbing than a handful of sexual dreams.

 

***

 

Hermann spent the rest of the night reading a biography of Alan Turing, the one non-work related book that had made it through everything with him. On the inside cover was an inscription written in a childish, broad hand that Hermann knew as well as his own by this point, as well as a smear of kaiju blue on the back cover. He did not think about these details, nor did he think about his dream.

 

***

 

Hermann was tired the next morning, but this was nothing he was not used to. He opted for coffee instead of tea, even though coffee in the 'dome still tasted like it was made of rubber shavings instead of ground beans, and spent the morning going through his desk.

 

As he'd suspected, a number of Newt's things, from erasers shaped like monster heads to marked-up copies of paper drafts, were tucked away in the different drawers. He knew very well that Newt came on his side of the lab when Hermann wasn't around; Newt wasn't nearly as good at sweeping up after himself as he thought. And he'd confiscated some of this stuff when it had started to annoy him, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that pointed out he was living up to his reputation as a cranky schoolmaster.

 

By the time Newt came in, sometime toward noon, Hermann had a substantial pile.

 

Newt leaned over the line, though he didn't cross it. "What is all this shit?" he demanded.

 

"You know very well what it is.” Hermann leaned back and tapped control-R to check his code, since he knew he wouldn't get anything else done until Newt had satisfied himself. "I figured I ought to return your possessions to you since we'll get marching orders any moment now."

 

Really, he had no idea what was going to happen. Herc was understandably unhappy with the PPDC brass for abandoning them, so he was not in a mood to negotiate about the future of the Jaeger program. And Hermann was ignoring the emails piling up in his inbox offering him this research position or that lecture tour. Never mind he wasn't sure why. He was allowed to be occasionally unsure, especially when it came to the question of rebuilding a future for the first time.

 

Newt scoffed. "Dude, you know as well as I do that no matter what happens, we are going to keep living out of each other's pockets." He sounded so sure of himself that Hermann glanced at him in surprise, but Newt was picking through the pile, placing certain objects in his pockets and lining other ones up on Hermann's desk. "I mean, I've already got, like, ten emails about a joint lecture tour, and those are only the ones I've bothered to read. I know you've got more."

 

Hermann made a noncommittal noise, even though this was true. People had long ago learned to direct their queries to Hermann if they wanted them answered in a timely fashion. "What makes you think I plan to agree to any of those directives? If I've ever made you think I want to spend more time than necessary in your presence, I need to know so I may modify my behavior accordingly."

 

Newt wasn't offended. He was glancing at the drafts now, his eyes narrowed in the way that meant he wasn't listening. "Please, Herms. Think about it. An entire lecture tour with a group of researchers coming in their pants at the thought of meeting us. People will pay us to spend an hour onstage in front of them, yelling at each other about what we both got wrong." He put a rubber monster on one of his fingers and used it to turn the pages of a stapled report. "I know you've had a wet dream about that at least once. I've been in your head."

 

Hermann bristled. The comment was no more vulgar or inappropriate than anything that came out of Newt's mouth, but given the last two nights—

 

"I don't think you understand, Newton," he said, turning away. Sometimes he had to work at being angry—Newt, after all, was the only person on the planet who could match Hermann in a contest of wits, as long as he didn't get distracted by a sex joke.

 

Now was not one of those times. Flat, disinterested words poured from his lips without effort, like ice on his tongue. "My primary motivation all this time has been to save the human race from extinction. But ever since we came here, another issue has driven me to work as fast and as hard as possible. I have pushed my body beyond its breaking point to reach the end of this project, because I want to shut these doors behind me someday, I want to shake hands with the Marshal, and I want never to see you again. Are we clear?"

 

He felt rather than saw Newt's shock; it brushed against him in waves, like the cold tide of the South China Sea that battered the Shatterdome. But Hermann did not turn to look. After a moment, Newt left. He didn't even slam the door behind him.

 

***

 

Hermann felt guilty, certainly. He almost always regretted the things he said to Newt in a high temper—sometimes only because he said them in front of someone important, but nevertheless. And he knew that Newt felt bad when he crossed the line as well. Not that either of them ever apologized to each other with words. But they made it clear in other ways: a bag of baby carrots left on Newt's desk; a day full of blessed silence, or where Newt listened only to classical music.

 

Today Hermann couldn't do anything of the sort. Newt didn't return to the lab, and Hermann did not go looking for him. After all, what he said was factually true, and therefore he had nothing to apologize for.

 

But Hermann turned it over and over in his mind nonetheless, a starving dog worrying the last bits of marrow from a bone. Newt talked often and at length about all the sex and drinking he would do when they won the war, but Hermann pictured only that moment when he picked up his luggage and walked out of the Shatterdome for the last time. He hadn't fantasized about leaving Newt behind; what he found beyond those closed doors was a mystery. The whole question of what to do with his life after the war ended was a blank he had never allowed himself to fill in.

 

But it wasn't just a bubble on a test or the line for a signature on a requisition sheet. It was... it was his entire life, empty as his chalkboards had once been. And usually blank space was a joy, a chance to bring order and meaning to seeming chaos and entropy. But this wasn't an experiment or an equation either.

 

He tried to work, tried to push those thoughts away, but after an hour he turned away from his computer and pressed his hand to his head. Had he really, never once in twenty years, thought of a life without Newton Geiszler? A world where the two of them weren't crushed closer and closer together by the looming threat of the kaiju? A world where he could lift his head and look around and not see a thousand reminders of a man who drove him to distraction even though they knew more about each other than anyone else ever would?

 

And if that was true—and it was—then what did it mean?

 

***

 

Instead of thinking, Hermann left the lab. Pockets of individuals were still drinking as though someone was going to take all of their alcohol away at any moment, and they were drunk enough to be more than happy to let Hermann join. But he only needed one shot to realize it wasn't going to help.

 

He opted for more painkillers instead. A terrible idea, really—he'd been skirting the edges of true dependence for at least the last year, longer if he was honest with himself. But God. He needed not to think. Just for a few minutes. Just for a while.

 

***

_At first, Hermann thinks he's remembering, not dreaming—he's standing in LOCCENT next to Newt and Tendo and everyone else, and they're all frozen still as statues, waiting for any sign that Raleigh Beckett isn't lost to the ocean like his brother._

_Then the blinking green indicator appears, and they all scream and cheer and throw their hands in the air._

In real life, Hermann felt less like a person and more like a piece of a single overjoyed organism, so it was easy to turn and throw his arms around Newt, and just as easy to turn away and hug someone else he knew. By the time he left LOCCENT that day, he'd hugged more people than he'd touched in the last five years.

_But this isn't a memory, and Hermann doesn't turn away from Newt._

_Hermann holds Newt tightly, his fingers digging into Newt's jacket. They press close to each other—not lightly, as they had on the day, but tightly. It's not a footnote in a celebration; it's a promise, silent and true, like the gift of a key that unlocks a door Hermann has been waiting his whole life to open. Like a secret whispered in his ear from a lover's lips. Like the way their minds fitted together when they Drifted._

_And then he turns away and hugs other people, and so does Newt, but they don't move away from each other. They remain joined, not touching but still clearly a unit, as though the connection formed between them when their minds touched is visible and electric, the way it was around Raleigh and Mako when they fought in the Kwoon._

_They do part from each other eventually, but not the same way._

 

In real life, Hermann looked up from a conversation with a J-tech and realized Newt was no longer there, and he might have been bothered but his hip hurt more than it had in years, and he really, really needed a lie down.

_This time, it's more deliberate: Hermann senses Newt moving away, like the sudden chill when a partner leaves your bed, and turns to look. But Newt smiles—not smirks, not grins, really_ smiles _, and it's breathtaking and perfect and Hermann's legs go weak for an entirely different reason. Newt’s smile is another promise, a light kiss on the mouth before leaving for work._

_So they return to each other. Not immediately. Hermann moves through the crowd of people, greeting everyone he sees and stopping to talk with more people than he has spoken to in ages. Newt is invisible, but Hermann has a general idea of his location, and they come back together again at the other end of the Jaeger bay, at the hallway that leads to the barracks._

_They look at each other for a moment, bright and certain in a way that nothing between them has ever been except the Drift. But this isn't an emergency anymore; they're not forced together by circumstance. They're choosing this, and they take the moment to assure each other it's both what they really want._

_And it_ is _what Hermann wants. His pulse beats in his throat and his wrists, the palm of his hand pressed to his cane; he's aware of the way his clothes slide over his skin, the feel of his lips pressed together in something that isn't a smile but isn't not a smile either._

_And Newt wants it too: it's in the part of his lips, the flush in his cheeks. The way he's rocked forward on his toes, as though he's going to lean up and steal a kiss. As though he wants Hermann to lean down and take one._

_Hermann won’t. Not because he doesn't want to, but because he's not having his first kiss with Newt in a place they can be interrupted. Instead, he nods, and Newt nods back, and they walk down the hallway together, not quite touching. Newt's room is closest, but they walk past it to Hermann's, since it has a bar on the wall and a seat in the shower._

_And Hermann is glad of the simple, sparse lines of his rooms, the familiarity. Since the moment he realized he would have to Drift with Newton to save his life, Hermann's world has been turned upside down and shaken, like a snow globe. Only now is everything settling back into place around him, and what he thought was a monumental change seems now like something he was waiting his entire life to see, like the pattern of his great equation._

_They stand in silence for a moment as Newt takes in the room. He opens his mouth, but Hermann puts a hand on the small of his back. "Don't talk," he says, but gently. "It's not your strong suit."_

_Newt shakes his head, but he's not annoyed. "Dude, you're trying to pick me up. The least you could do is quit the insults for five minutes." His voice is light, and his eyes flick over Hermann's face, lingering on his lips._

_They've turned to each other, somehow, and Hermann lets his cane fall against the wall so he can put his other hand on Newt's hip, though they don't move any closer together. "What exactly makes you think I'm the one who's got to do the work here, Newt? As I remember, I'm the one who had to come and save your life."_

_Newt grins. "Yeah, but I'm the one who came up with the idea that saved the world. You were totally clinging to my coattails the whole way."_

_Hermann rolls his eyes. It all feels so—soft. As though their arguments and shouting matches have been worn down like rocks in a tumbler, and now they're nothing but smooth edges under fingertips that know their contours._

It's not like this in real life. It's not like this at all.

 

Is it?

_"Newt," Hermann says, softly, and Newt bites his lower lip. Hermann doesn't move to touch Newt or shift his hands on Newt's body; he doesn't have to. The way he says Newt's name is a caress in itself, fingers lightly pressed against a well-loved cheek. "We could spend the entire evening litigating who, exactly, saved the world,_ or _." He stops deliberately._

_"Or?" Newt asks. His hands are lightly resting at his side, as though he's afraid to move them._

_"Or we could admit that, like everything done well in this world, it was a joint venture requiring the collaboration of two of the greatest scientific minds that ever lived. And that that collaboration has not yet reached its culmination." Now he does move his hand: he takes it off the small of Newt's back and cups his cheek instead, not at all surprised at the way they fit perfectly together. "And that we have much better things to do with our time than argue."_

_He doesn't wait for Newt's response; he kisses Newt. Not rough, animalistic like in every other dream. This is soft, tender, the way two lovers kiss at the end of a well-done Jane Austen movie. As though they have been waiting to kiss like this forever, as though it was the only thing they were ever meant to be doing._

_Newt slides his arms around Hermann's waist, holding tight as though he'll fall over without it. He's limp in the circle of Hermann's arms, totally focused on the connection between them._

_Hermann draws out the kiss, slow and soft and sure, and caps it with a kiss to the corner of Newt's mouth. "There," he says, running his thumb over Newt's cheekbone. "There is one other thing we need to do."_

_"Mm," Newt says, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. His expression is pleasantly dazed. "What's that?"_

_Hermann glances meaningfully towards the bathroom._

_Newt wrinkles his nose. "Shower sex is never as good as it sounds on paper. It's usually just an accident waiting to happen."_

_"That's why we're not having sex in the shower." Hermann isn't irritated either. He feels as though he could stretch this moment out forever, as though the patience he lacked his whole life has arrived in triplicate, neatly explained so he knows how to operate it. He knows how to handle Newt, instead of acting frustrated because that's the only way he can express the overwhelming feelings Newt engenders within him. "We're going to shower in the shower. We're having sex on the bed."_

_Newt blinks, as though this idea hasn't really occurred to him until now. He worries his lower lip, absently. "Yeah, okay, fine. But only if I get to take your clothes off."_

_"Fair enough."_

_Hermann turns the water on before turning to Newt. Years of habit have taught him the water will only warm once you've waited so long you've given up on the idea altogether, but tonight it spurts out hot at once. Nevertheless. He leaves it run as he moves toward Newt._

_"You first," Newt says, fingers already reaching for the buttons of Hermann's sweater. Hermann allows this, standing still and patient as Newt works off his many layers. Ordinarily he'd be embarrassed; although he's not shy about sex once things have gotten started, nothing is more intimidating than standing naked before a new partner for the first time._

_Except this is not like the other times Hermann's coupled with someone. He knows how long Newt has waited for this moment, how a quiet part of his mind has wanted this more than words could ever express. That if Newt had his way, Hermann would be naked and wanting forever, because nothing could ever look better than Hermann in his bed._

_It's only just now that Hermann understands he's felt this way as well. That the way his eyes move over Newt is not like they move over any other person, that he knows every inch of Newt Geiszler the way he knows his work, the way he knows how to breathe. That part of him has cried out for Newt's hands on his skin since the moment they first turned to look at each other, all those years ago in a crowded cafe._

_Hermann steps out of his briefs and puts his hands on Newt's shoulders. "Now for once in your life, stand still," and for a wonder, Newt does. Hermann looks Newt up and down, slowly, contemplating the best place to start._

_Hermann puts his hands on Newt's shoulders, slowly easing his jacket off. The sleeve ripped by the kaiju detaches completely, and Newt swears. "You have two others just like it," Hermann says, but gently._

_"Yeah, but that one was my favorite."_

_Hermann ignores him. He picks up the base of Newt's tie, running his thumb over the fake silk. Then he slides his hand up the length, lingering at the knot. Newt shivers, and Hermann knows Newt wants him to place his hands on Newt's neck, to touch him at all. Precisely why Hermann doesn't. Instead, he undoes the tie and lets that fall as well. He smooths Newt's collar, then opens each button one at a time, slowly. He tugs Newt's shirttails free and nudges the shirt back, over his shoulders, so Newt can slip out of it. Newt holds still otherwise, like he knows Hermann wants him to, but he lets out a little sound of need when Hermann finally places his hands on Newt's bare skin._

_The tattoo of Onibaba on his chest and stomach is one of the oldest. Not faded exactly—Newt's artist is too good for that, and he's too careful about getting them touched up—but it's softened with age, just like Newt and Hermann both have. Hermann traces the design with his fingertips, so lightly that he's hardly touching Newt. Newt shivers, his lips parting, and he gasps aloud when Hermann touches one of his nipples, stroking it to hardness. Hermann considers replacing his fingers with his mouth, but not right now. Later._

_He turns his attention instead to Newt's belt, battered and stained like all the rest of his clothes. He pulls it free, then pauses. He runs the heel of his palm over the hardness he feels just beneath the denim. "Really? Today?"_

_Newt tips his head back; his voice is strained, and Hermann can feel the effort he's making not to rut up into Hermann's slow touch. "Dude, I did not realize that laundry day was also the day we were gonna save the world. I would have planned better, okay?"_

_Hermann shakes his head. "I am not in the least surprised. But still." He clicks his tongue. "It's the principle of the thing."_

_Newt lifts his head, attempting his best smirk even though he's clearly undone. "I would have thought you'd like it better this way. Easier access."_

_"I just find myself wondering how you don't get caught when you zip up—and for the love of all things holy, do not answer that question. Be still now." He finds the outline of Newt's cock and squeezes, and Newt groans but does as he's told._

_Hermann unzips Newt's jeans slowly, and not because he's worried about catching any skin in the zipper's teeth. Rather, he's always been the sort of person who takes time with presents. He's careful not to rip the paper, and he sets it aside so he can admire it later._

_Also, Newt's trembling under his hands, so he can't rush this part. He pushes Newt's jeans down his hips, letting his erection free. The piercing in Newt's cock is unsurprising, both because Hermann has seen Newt's memory of receiving it and because_ of course _Newt has a Prince Albert._

_Again, he considers replacing his hands with his mouth; he wants to slide his lips over warm metal, taste the precum already leaking from Newt's cock._

_But. Later. He really does want to shower, and not only because it will release muscles made tight from exertion, from decades of stress._

_So instead he digs his nails into Newt's hips and kisses him again. The kiss is not hard, but it's a promise of things to come, and he finishes by dragging his teeth over Newt's lower lip, swallowing the weak, shaking noises Newt makes._

_"Now. Shower," he says, still only a breath away from Newt's mouth._

_Newt helps him into the shower. Hermann doesn't need it, but Newt does. He doesn't need Newt's help washing off either, but he wants it, enjoying the way Newt's hands slowly move over Hermann's spine, his neck, his half-awake penis. The best part, oddly enough, is when Newt washes his hair. It's so... normal. As though they've been doing this for twenty years instead of shouting at each other from either side of an increasingly wide divide._

But again. This is only a dream. In real life, Hermann took this shower alone. He washed his own spine, his own neck, his own cock, and barely gave a thought for his hair.

_Hermann reaches for Newt and gives him the same treatment, though more briskly because the water's beginning cooling off. Probably other people in the Shatterdome have gotten the same smart idea._

_They finish just in time, when the pipes give a gurgle that suggests the water is about to turn to ice. Newt turns off the stream, then steps out to hand Hermann a towel. Hermann presses it against his face and lets out a sigh that's been rattling around inside him for—well, for twenty years._

_"You know, I thought this part'd be a lot harder," Newt says,_ a propos _of nothing._

_This is normal. Hermann is very used to picking up the pieces of Newt's thoughts. "What part? Be specific."_

_Newt towels off his hair before speaking. "You know. I thought I'd have to talk you into bed or something. I'd have to woo you with poetry or some shit like that. Or. Like. Math. I guess."_

_"In other words, you didn't think this would involve Drifting," says Hermann dryly._

_"Well, yeah, that part was pretty out of nowhere, even you have to admit that."_

_"I would have done it before," and Hermann only realizes he's said it out loud when Newt looks at him, his eyes wide with surprise. "If you had asked me, I mean. But I never thought—" He covers his face, unwilling to acknowledge the way the whole world had yawed and bowed beneath his feet when he realized that Newt had actually Drifted with a kaiju without anyone there to help._

And that part is true as well. He would have stepped in, had Newt asked. It’s the only true part of this dream. The real Hermann and the dream Hermann share nothing else.

_Newt doesn't speak for a moment. Hermann wants to study Newt's face, but he doesn't want to reveal his own expression. This is far more intimate than the naked curves of his body, the scars from multiple surgeries that march down his hip._

_Newt touches his knee, and Hermann uncovers his face so Newt can kiss him—deeply, confidently, as though he's spent his whole life waiting for the right to do just that. "I guess I just had the usual plan in my mind. You know. You've gotta clear the castle before you can rescue the princess."_

_Hermann glares at him. "I am many things, Newton Geiszler, but I am not a princess."_

_"Prince, whatever. You always get so hung up on semantics. And you’d look_ amazing _in a dress." He presses a kiss to Hermann's mouth, then backs away so Hermann can get up and the two of them can finish drying off._

_It should be awkward then—the two of them standing naked, trying to figure out how to get from the bathroom to the bed without making idiots of themselves. But Newt turns just as Hermann comes to stand beside him, and then they're kissing again, desperate this time, pressing together as much skin as possible. Hermann finds the curve of Newt's ass and digs his fingers in, hard; Newt scratches his nails down Hermann's back hard enough to leave marks. He's not exactly sure how they get to the bed, but then they're falling across it, and Hermann blesses every physical therapist he ever swore at that he still has the ability to kneel over Newt and rub their hips together._

_They break apart for breath, and Newt turns sideways so Hermann can slide next to him on the bed. For a moment they don't touch except for their hands, twined together._

_"So how are we doing this?" Newt asks._

_Hermann doesn't answer for a moment. Not because he doesn't know what he wants, but because he's suddenly got access to every way Newt has ever dreamed of fucking him, and they are legion. Most involve equipment Hermann doesn't have in his room, but it wouldn't be right for this moment anyway. He squeezes Newt's palm. "I've got condoms and lube. You should know what drawer. Get them and come here."_

_"You're the one by the dresser," Newt says, but it's only for show. He slides over top of Hermann, making more contact than is strictly necessary, and steps away from bed to go through Hermann's things. Hermann rests his hands on his hips, gazing at the ceiling. Newt is snooping, but Hermann doesn't mind. Newt's like a magpie. And anyway, Hermann appreciates the chance to collect himself. Certain things he didn't understand in the Drift are clicking into place like the final pieces of a puzzle._

_So when Newt comes to bed, Hermann takes the boxes and sets them aside, letting Newt settle himself comfortably before he speaks. "This is what you wanted? All along?"_

_Newt looks at him in surprise. "Are we really talking now?" he says, but he's confused, not upset. "I mean—duh. Didn't you want this too?" He traces a finger down the side of Hermann's ribs, and Hermann shivers._

_Hermann's eyes move over Newt's face, and he can see that Newt only asked because he already knows the answer. "I suppose I did," he said, resting one hand on the base of Newt's spine. "I've never been very self-aware, though. And I tend to take people at their word when they say they can't stand the sight of me."_

_"I only said that stuff because my other option was yelling 'I want you to fuck me senseless,' and that's_ usually _not appropriate in a laboratory setting." He tried to imitate Hermann's accent, which just made Hermann roll his eyes. "I figured I'd have to work you up to this part. But you solved the problem more efficiently, I guess.”_

_“As I always do." Hermann studies Newt's face again, and then he pulls Newt closer. He tries to kiss Newt, but to his surprise, Newt pulls back._

_"No more talking?" This one actually is a question._

_Hermann gives a one-armed shrug. "The way I see it, we could spend another two decades talking this to death, or we could simply give a demonstration. A picture's worth a thousand words."_

_Newt smirks. "And how much is a blow job?"_

_Hermann keeps his expression grave. He knows now that Newt always notices the sparkle in his eyes, the smile tugging at the corner of his lips, no matter how well Hermann thinks he has hid it. "That's a discussion to be had another time, Dr. Geiszler. At present, I think there's a more pressing need on both our minds."_

_Newt snorts, but he's nervous too. His hands shake a little bit as he reaches for the condom box. Hermann lets Newt open the package and ease the rubber over Hermann's cock; he bites his lip as Newt uncaps the lube. "Let me."_

_Newt swallows. "Dude, if you get me started, I'm not stopping."_

_Hermann tips some lube out onto his hand anyway, rubbing his fingers against his palm to warm it. "The least I can do is make sure you're ready."_

_Newt nods, closing his eyes. Hermann allows himself a few seconds to appreciate the sight. Then he slides a single finger inside Newt. Newt gasps, shifting to allow Hermann better access. He's tight and hot and ready, and Hermann pushes away the desire to skip the preamble. Soon enough, soon enough._

_Anyway, he needs some time to prepare himself as well. He wants this to last as long as possible, to leave his marks on Newt's skin the way they've left marks on each other's minds._

_So he takes his time, working his finger slowly, steadily, ignoring the way Newt whines for more. Only when Hermann can no longer hold back does he add a second finger, then a third more quickly, and he grins at the way Newt curves around him, biting his lip to try to hold himself back._

_Hermann slips his hand free and wipes it on the side of the bed, then rests it back on Newt's hip. Newt looks down at him for a moment, and the air between them is breathless and electric, like the moment before the Drift when they truly saw each other for the first time._

_Newt smiles, and he slides down on top of Hermann, and Hermann rises to meet him, unable to resist the overwhelming heat and tightness of Newt's body, the way every part of Newt seems to welcome every part of him. They move together, easy and effortless, again as though this is something they've spent their whole lives doing._

_They could have. Instead of wasting all that time, they could have been spending it like this. They could have been a unit, set apart from the rest of the world, instead of becoming lonelier and lonelier, angrier and angrier, sadder and sadder._

_Newt laces his fingers through Hermann's, leaning down for a kiss. "Hey," he whispers. "We got around to it eventually."_

_"That we did," Hermann whispers. He takes Newt in hand and works him, fast and hard, and follows Newt over the edge of release._

 

***

 

Hermann woke, staring blankly at the ceiling. The image didn't help; it was the same view he'd seen in his dream, the one where Newt had been naked and on top of him. The one where Newt had kissed him like a lover in a story. The one where Newt looked at Hermann like he was the answer to a question neither of them had realized they needed to ask.

 

Hermann was shivering; for once it was not from overstimulation, though he was overstimulated. He'd thrown off his pajamas in the night and shoved the blankets to the end of the bed, out of reach, even though the Shatterdome was best described as colder than hell.

 

And—

 

And. For God's sake, this could not go on. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to stop waking up feeling like he lived in a brothel. He wanted to stop thinking of Newt, and his lips, and his hands, and his eyes, and his laughter.

 

He wanted to know what to do with the rest of his life instead of drowning under the weight of the idea.

 

There was really only one solution, just as there had been when Newt went off to find a fresh kaiju brain. And just as then, Hermann felt foolish and uncertain and idiotic but also like this was the only choice he could make. Like something had set them on this path years ago, and only now was it going to be resolved.

 

He showered, and he dressed, and then he marched to Newt's room.

 

***

 

Luckily, Newt was there. Some part of Hermann had known he would be—he would always sense where Newt was, like some sort of radar that only applied to a man he was supposed to hate. A man whose life he'd saved. A man who—

 

Well, Hermann was beginning to realize he understood Newt even less than he thought, and that was a serious issue. Hence why he was here. Certainly he'd be able to resolve this at last. He had to, for the sake of his sleep and his sanity if nothing else.

 

He gave himself a chance to stand and collect himself before he knocked on the door. That was his first mistake.

 

Because apparently Newt knew Hermann was there, just like Hermann knew he was awake—or at least Newt swung open his door so he could glare at Hermann. "The hell are you doing here?"

 

It wasn't his true angry tone. Hermann knew every inch of Newt's irritation, like a favorite blanket, and this sort only appeared when Newt was hurt.

 

Hermann's second mistake was not turning away at that tone of voice—it encouraged pity and softening, words of care, and it just made Hermann angrier.

 

And he didn't need to be angry. What he needed was to hole up for a while, somewhere Newt wouldn't come looking, until all the emotion had worn away and he could look at Newt as dispassionately as a pile of student papers that needed grading. Without noticing his freckles and the flecks of gold in his eyes and the scar at the corner of his mouth, the one that needed kissing like Hermann needed to breathe.

 

Hermann set both hands on his cane to keep from clenching his fists.

 

His third mistake was speaking at all, when he could walked away and let Newt's curses follow him down the hall. He had the chance; he had the choice. Yet he did it anyway. "This has to stop."

 

Newt tilted his head, but it was a lie, just like his tone of voice; he knew very well what Hermann meant. "What, the part where you show up at way too early in the morning? Because if you plan to make that a habit, I'll tell you, dude, nip that shit in the bud. I need my beauty sleep. And I just woke up." He was talking too quickly, another sign he was lying.

 

Hermann glared. It was a very good glare, but Newt was too used to it to even flinch anymore.

 

Nevertheless. Hermann glared. "I know that you just woke up, because so did I. We were having the same dream. We've been having the same dreams all along." On an ordinary day, he would have punctuated his words by poking Newt's chest to emphasize his point, but right now he didn't trust himself to touch Newt. It was dangerous, just like the things he kept thinking about Newt were dangerous.

 

Newt opened his mouth. Hermann kept glaring. A blush spread over Newt's cheeks and down his neck—and embarrassing Newt Geiszler was not easy, since his stock and trade was juvenile humor. You could always tell when it happened, though. He blushed with his whole body.

 

But thinking of Newt's whole body was not a good idea right now.

 

"Well, what do you want me to do about it? I can't control my brain. I mean, trust me, I've tried, but we've both established it doesn't work well," Newt said, dropping his voice without being prompted. Before, he'd been looking Hermann in the eyes; now he was looking anywhere but Hermann's face, and the blush only darkened.

 

Hermann opened his mouth, then glanced over his shoulder. The hallway was empty, but it wouldn't stay that way for long. People were returning to normal work schedules, if only because they had to clean up the mess from the never ending parties. "We're not discussing this out here. Let me in."

 

Newt scowled. "How is that supposed to help?"

 

"It's private, and these are—private matters."

 

Newt hesitated. Then he let out a disgusted sigh and opened the door just enough to let Hermann inside.

 

Walking into Newt's room felt like watching a movie with a broken projector: everything felt and looked familiar, but also slightly off kilter, because Hermann knew this room from Newt's memories, not his own. He'd never been inside Newt's room, had never even approached it. He pushed away that feeling of unreality and turned to face Newt. "What on God's earth are you trying to accomplish with this?"

 

Newt tried to glare back, but he was still blushing, and his words were embarrassed and slightly miserable. "I told you, man, I'm not really in control here. Do you think I want you seeing all that shit? It's—it's just—" But he couldn't seem to express what it was, and he settled for scowling at the poster of Coyote Tango on his far wall.

 

Hermann scowled back. "You need to explain this to me, Newton. You cannot reveal that you have been having sexual fantasies about—about _me_ for God knows how long and expect me to leave it at that."

 

Newt snapped to face him, angry now. "Why not? You're the one who said you wanted to forget I existed. Once we get far enough apart, the connection breaks, and you'll never have to be inside my head again."

 

"I didn't say I wanted to forget you existed," Hermann snapped, and only realized once he'd spoken that it wasn't what he meant to say. But it was true, and it disconcerted him. Now it was his turn to look away, stroking the head of his cane for comfort. "I—" The words weren't there, and he found himself trailing off.

 

Newt made an irritated noise. "Dude, you cannot harp on me for never finishing my sentences and then not finish yours. Spit it out."

 

Hermann could have argued that, but then they'd forget about what they were supposed to be talking about and the issue would not get resolved. And he needed the issue to be resolved. He needed—

 

"I just don't understand why you have spent the last twenty years telling me you hate me in every way possible, only to go home and think about—" He couldn't finish the sentence, but Newt didn't call him out on it this time.

 

Newt, instead, rubbed his arms, avoiding Hermann's eyes again. "I was only giving as good as I got. It was supposed to just be hatefucking. Who doesn't like a good hatefucking?"

 

"What do you mean, _supposed to be_?" Hermann forced himself to keep glaring, since he was more and more confused by the moment. Something hid behind the confusion but his feelings were opaque and cold, like a frosted window.

 

Newt swallowed and didn't speak.

 

Hermann frowned, but it was force of habit at that point.

 

"It doesn't matter what it was," Newt muttered at last. "You were right before. We'll both just go and do what we need to do, and that'll be that. No muss, no fuss, none of this shit. Hell, we'll get more done that way."

 

"Newton," Hermann said, before he could stop himself. Newt's eyes flicked to him—not hopeful, exactly, but not as black as they had been.

 

Hermann took in a breath, looking away from Newt's face because it was confusing him again. "I am angry. I'm always angry. So are you, in your own way. But this..." He forced himself to continue, because Newt was right. He could not leave things unsaid when Newt's tendency to trail off in the middle of a thought drove him insane. "This is different. I thought it was a joke. A mistake. Because—it doesn't make any sense to me."

 

Newt looked him full in the face now, just as confused as Hermann felt. "Why doesn't it make sense? I mean—" He swallowed hard. "You've seen what—what I think about you. You know how I feel."

 

"I _don't_ know how you feel," Hermann said, and it was both sharper than he meant and exactly as sharp as he meant. "I know now that you have a number of elaborate and ridiculous ideas about how I behave in bed, but that is—instinct. As far as I know, you have the same fantasies about everyone in the Shatterdome. And since you have never been shy about telling anyone that you want to get in bed with them, I can only assume—"

 

He broke off, looking away, and he couldn't fault himself for it this time because the truth he was circling around was jagged and dangerous, a broken bottle shattered on the street in front of him, glittering in the moonlight.

 

Newt didn't press him for once; he just watched Hermann silently, worrying his lower lip as he had in the most recent dream.

 

Hermann let out a long, slow breath and turned back to Newt. "I can only assume that you find these feelings distressing and unwanted. That you aren't actually attracted to me, and the thought of such things—repels you. As you have told me that I do, often and at length and with more expletives than I knew existed."

 

Newt blinked. He often looked at Hermann as though he had never seen him before—usually when Hermann made a scientific pronouncement, and Newt had to find a new way to pick everything apart. But that was a delighted look, like a cat before it pounces. This was more akin to horror.

 

He stared at Hermann, and Hermann stared evenly back, swallowing down the fear as best he could. Which was not well. Then Newt sank down on his bed. He passed a hand over his face. "Jesus Christ, man. I know for a fact that you are, like, the second-smartest person on the planet. You've been inside my head. How can you still not get it?"

 

Hermann, again, decided to ignore the “second smartest” comment. "You know as well as I do that the Drift is the Cliff Notes version, not the entire book.”

 

Newt shook his head. "That's not the point, dude. I mean, that wasn't anywhere close to all of the things I've ever thought about you. And I just—" He pushed a hand through his hair. "I want you more than I've ever wanted anybody in my life. How is that a hard concept to get your head around?"

 

Hermann turned away, suddenly, because the sight of Newt's face, earnest and open and defeated was—

 

Well, he didn't want to think about what it was, but he was here, and therefore he had to think about it. He squared his shoulders, trying to stand straight and confident, trying to recapture the righteous anger that had brought him here in the first place.

 

But if he was wrong—

 

He rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes. He knew Newt wasn't lying. He would have known even before the Drift, because Newt was a terrible liar. And that meant he was telling the truth, and that meant...

 

He opened his eyes, cautiously, to find that Newt was still watching him, still worrying his lower lip, still cringing like Hermann had punched him. "Then why... why all these years? Why didn't you—"

 

Newt shrugged, looking away. "Because I'm a dumbass? Because it scared me? Pick a fucking reason, dude. I'm not good at this stuff. I knew the second I told you, I'd fuck it up, and I guess I was right, 'cause look where we are. I just thought..." He trailed off, but for once Hermann didn't feel the need to jump on him for it.

 

He took in a few breaths, trying to find calm, equilibrium, but of course it wasn't there when he needed it. The world was shifting under his feet again—he'd thought that was over after the war clock stopped, but apparently that was only the beginning. "You thought what? That I would somehow read between the lines every time you called me a crabby old man and realize you were really trying to pick me up? That I would know what you meant when you insulted my life's work? That I would understand you were trying to communicate something besides your utmost scorn and contempt for me?"

 

"Well when you say it like that..." Newt groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Look, I know I was an asshole. The entire universe knows I'm an asshole. You tell me I'm an asshole at least once a day, and I worry you're sick when you don't. I know this sounds pretty stupid coming from a guy who studies giant monsters who want to eat me and destroy everything I love, but nothing has ever scared me more than trying to tell you how I felt. You... you always gave as good as you got, man, and I _love_ that. I didn't want to fuck that up. And I knew I would only fuck it up. I _did_ fuck it up, because you're right. I should have said something instead of sending you creepy brain messages."

 

He let out a slow breath, then faced Hermann again, looking him in the eye and lifting his chin. "Well. Consider this me officially unfucking it. I'm sorry. And I won't bother you anymore."

 

"You think _that's_ what I want?" Hermann snapped, surprising even himself. "Is that why you think I came here?"

 

Newt squinted. "Well. I mean. That's kind of what it looks like. The only thing you ever do is yell at me, so it makes sense that you would come here to yell at me more." His expression shifted; he was holding something down inside himself, smothering it into silence.

 

Hermann didn't understand that expression because of the Drift. He knew it because... because how many times had he done that himself? How many times had he pushed something away and buried it before it could rouse and cause trouble? Before it would lead him to say something stupid that he knew wouldn't be welcomed in the real world? Before it would revealed something soft and true when it wasn’t safe?

 

Hermann squared his jaw, moving his eyes away from Newt's face because he couldn't think when he looked at Newt's face. "Be quiet for once in your life and let me think," he said, sensing that Newt was about to speak. Amazingly, Newt obeyed and did nothing but swing his legs, tapping his heels against the leg of his bed.

 

Hermann turned his mind back to the dreams again, letting himself inspect them for the first time. They weren't like other sex dreams he'd had. Part of that was because they were Newt's, not his—but that wasn't everything. When he had sex dreams about other people, he woke, had a laugh about it in his mind, and went on with his day. They didn't affect the way he looked and felt about people. He was attracted to plenty of people in the Shatterdome, but it was only that, attraction. He would no more act on it than he would act on his occasional desire to take up smoking again.

 

His dreams of Newt hadn't been like that. When he looked at Newt, he saw the way Newt's throat moved when he swallowed, the jump of his pulse beneath his skin. He saw the way Newt licked his lips before he spoke. He saw the way Newt always leaned toward him—him and no one else—like he was waiting for Hermann to close that distance between them.

 

And... and he'd felt Newt's eyes on him the same way. Noticed the way Newt looked at his lips and not at his eyes when he spoke of things unrelated to math. The way Newt swallowed when Hermann wore a t-shirt instead of a jacket to the lab. The way there was always a smile hidden in Newt's eyes whenever they spoke, even when they were calling each other the scum of the earth.

 

He'd ignored all of those things. He'd seen them in himself and in Newt, and he'd held them down under the water until the surface stilled, because—

 

Because Newt was right. They were dangerous.

 

Hermann pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he let out a disgusted sigh. "Move over."

 

"Huh?"

 

But Hermann was already pushing Newt aside so he could sit on the bed. They had not been this close since the helicopter ride back from Hong Kong, and then both of them had been too shellshocked to really pay attention to each other. Now Hermann turned to Newt, and he let himself look. He ignored the blush that crept into Newt's cheeks and the voice in the back of his own mind that told him this was a horrible idea, that he was making the worst mistake of his life and he had no excuse for thinking and feeling this way now that the world wasn't on the line any longer.

 

He just looked at Newton Geiszler. The worn black glasses. The bright green eyes. The soft, full mouth that, like his own, was marked with too many frown lines. The uncountable freckles and the soft arc of his cheekbones.

 

"You are really an idiot," he said at last.

 

Newt drew back, sputtering. "What the fuck, man? You can't just look at me like—like—"

 

"Like I've also been an idiot," said Hermann, with more certainty than he felt. "Like I've spent my whole life running away from this idea and telling myself it was for the greater good of the world."

 

Newt blinked. Then he narrowed his eyes, though he relaxed back onto the bed. "Now what are you getting at?" His voice was nervous now.

 

Hermann set his hand on Newt's knee. It was a safe, sensible place to put his hand, despite the voice still screaming in the back of his head that this was a trick, that he was being ridiculous, that Newt was going to pull away and laugh and mock Hermann for being a human being with feelings the way he _always_ had. "I'm saying I didn't mean what I told you yesterday. It was a boorish and horrible thing to say because—"

 

He took in a breath and forced himself to continue, the way he forced himself to keep walking when his hip threatened to give out. "Because you made me realize that I had never thought of a world without seeing you every day. Where we weren't forced together. Where I wouldn't know that you were alive and safe at all times. Where I wouldn't be able to swoop in and save you when you did something spectacularly stupid."

 

Newt was very still, like a deer about to bound away. "Is this you trying to tell me you're into me?" he managed at last.

 

Hermann sighed, but it was not nearly as disgusted and dissatisfied as usual. He was starting to think he wouldn't feel disgusted and dissatisfied for a long time. "If you must put it that way, yes."

 

Hermann thought that the Drift meant Newt couldn't surprise him anymore. He was wrong. Newt grabbed his collar and pulled him in for a kiss, clumsy and needy and the most perfect thing Hermann had felt since the moment his mind clicked into place beside Newt's. It was endless and right and nothing like the dream kisses but still somehow the same, because they had both wanted it for so long.

 

Hermann broke the kiss, slowly, so he could take in a breath and gather his thoughts, but he kept his forehead pressed to Newt's. "We really need to work on your communication skills," he said at last.

 

Newt snorted. "Takes one to know one, man."

 

"Yes. Well." And he kissed Newt again before either of them could say anything even stupider.


End file.
